


The Red Scarf

by wheel_of_fish



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Domestic Bliss, F/M, Fluff, Light Bondage, Married Sex, Mirror Sex, Oral Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-28 20:05:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13911198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_of_fish/pseuds/wheel_of_fish
Summary: It is isolating and wearying, this new life as a vicomtesse—but Christine's efforts have not gone unnoticed. Oneshot.





	The Red Scarf

The trouble with being a vicomtesse, Christine had determined, was that one always had to maintain a facade in public.

The same was true for any member of high society, she supposed, but she felt an added pressure to compensate for her more humble origins. It was not that she was ashamed by any means, but she had been all too aware of the murmured derision surrounding the Vicomte de Chagny's betrothal to a glorified chorus girl, and she did not wish for anyone to think poorly of her husband. It was the least she could do, she had decided, after he had quite literally risked life and limb for her.

It was fortunate, then, that Christine possessed some acting skill, but it wore on her. Even now, as she and Raoul made to exit the opulent Parisian hotel where they had just attended a charity ball, she could not let down her guard.

In the lobby, stray acquaintances lay in wait like wolves; the pair had thrice been forced to stop and exchange farewells. Christine clung to Raoul's arm and tried to speak as little as necessary, so that no one might notice she had consumed a few too many glasses of champagne.

She also dreaded the moment when they opened the lobby doors to the cold rain outside, for Raoul would put up a great fuss about seeing her to the coach without so much as a drop of water touching her person—and she would have to indulge him, or all anyone talked about the following morning would be how the Vicomte de Chagny forced his new bride to walk uncovered in the February rain, and now she would most certainly catch her death and leave him a young widower with no heir, God rest her soul.

But as she looked past the doorman now, she was pleased to find that the rain had stopped. Still, she kept her grip firm on her husband's arm, unconfident in the reliability of her shoes on the water-slicked pavement. The surface shone like oil where it reflected the amber glow of the streetlamps.

The de Chagny carriage was close by, at least. Raoul was as chivalrous as ever in helping her climb in, seeing to it that the train of her gown did not catch before he sat on the bench opposite her.

It was only when the cab began to trundle down the boulevard that they were able to relax and shed the congenial smiles that had been emblazoned across their faces for the duration of the evening. Raoul released a puff of air so exaggerated that it displaced a tuft of sandy hair at his forehead.

Christine lay her fan on the seat and picked at the sprays of gold lace and ribbon bedecking the sleeve-openings at her elbows. Her gown was exquisite—satin of the palest pink, save for the ivory skirt panel with embroidered bronze florals, and a boned bodice whose square neckline was trimmed with gold lace and sewn-in pearls—but she could not wait to be rid of it.

It was their second fundraising ball in a week and their fifth evening function in as many days. They always attended as a pair but would be accosted and often separated the second they entered, as they simply  _must_ see Mme. Gauthier's new diamond hair comb or M. Roche's recent acquisition of twenty black-and-gold lacquer boxes from Japan, or be called upon to settle a debate as to whether it was  _Nabucco_ or  _La Traviata_ that contained Verdi's most challenging aria, and what was the name of that French restaurant in Rome where they had dined on their honeymoon?

It tired Christine so, this onslaught of stimuli to which she was expected to pay rapt attention. Her days were no less demanding, and those were almost guaranteed to be absent her husband's company. It was a luxury if the two of them could enjoy a private supper together and a few moments of intimacy before they collapsed of exhaustion for the night. She looked forward to when they would escape to the coast for the summer season, but that would not be for some time yet.

She was as weary as ever now, and her feet hurt. The champagne, combined with the privacy of the cab, eroded her inhibitions such that she slid off her shoes and swam through layers of silk and tulle and frippery to rub at her aching feet.

Across from her, Raoul clucked his tongue. "A vicomtesse, baring her feet in public?" Even as he shook his head in mock derision, he reached out with capable hands to pull the stockinged feet onto his lap, where he began to knead her sore arches. "What  _am_  I to do with you?"

Christine had already closed her eyes to his touch and now resisted the urge to moan from the relief that flooded her muscles. Her head felt as light and bubbly as the drink that had seemed to replenish itself, like magic, in her daintily gloved hand throughout the night. She let it loll against the dark wall of the cab as she murmured, "I suppose that you shall have to punish me, monsieur."

His throaty chuckle warmed her insides. Even with her eyes closed, she smiled. She would never grow tired of hearing that laugh.

"Christine Daaé," he said suddenly, and with mock solemnity.

She had not been addressed by her maiden name since before their wedding five months ago, and she giggled to hear it now. "Monsieur?"

"Where is your red scarf?"

Her eyelids fluttered open. It was true that she still wore the scarf when she could, knowing how much it pleased him, but the red wool could complement only so many of the fine ensembles required of these functions. "Why, I am afraid it is sitting at home in the wardrobe this night," she replied, her words syrupy. "Am I to be punished for that indiscretion, too?" She locked eyes with him as she spoke: a challenge.

She was met with a raised eyebrow and two blue-gray irises that seemed to darken at her inquiry. "Indeed," he said, his voice now thick with intention. "I daresay that you will have to be."

They continued to stare at each other. She felt a flutter of longing in her stomach, and she resisted the urge to swap sides of the cab to be next to him. She did not want to start something that had every guarantee of being interrupted.

Raoul had slid the shoes back on for her by the time they arrived at their building, so that the coachman who opened the door for them remained none the wiser. He held her gloved hand from the moment she stepped out of the carriage, and not once did he release her, not even when the staff swooped in at the door to aid in the removal of mantle and overcoat and top hat. He was quick to dismiss the help after that, for which Christine was grateful. They both seemed to have decided, independently of one another, that Raoul would be the one to help her undress this night.

In the bedroom, the process of undressing was not unlike that of removing one's costume after a performance: with each layer shed, the two actors stepped more out of character and back into their more comfortable selves. The dreadful shoes came off first. Then, while Raoul shucked his tailcoat and cravat, Christine tugged off her silk gloves and lay them on the dressing-table. Her jewelry followed soon after. When she reached up to remove the overabundance of pins that held her perfectly coiffed hair in place, he moved in and caught her wrist.

It was without a word that he began to extract the pins himself, one by one. He teased out the long curls that were freed by his efforts; every brush of his fingers against her scalp, of his hands against the nape of her neck, turned her skin to gooseflesh. Their chests were nearly touching, and she could detect at his throat the notes of sandalwood and bergamot that were characteristic of his favorite cologne.

When her hair fell freely and her scalp began to regain some measure of feeling, he kissed her forehead and smiled before attending to the buttons of his waistcoat. She unlaced the front closures of her bodice, stepped out of the cloud of fabric that comprised her skirts, and unfastened her bustle.

Thus, it was in undergarments and stockings that Christine found herself opening the doors to the carved walnut armoire. "Ah," she said, extracting a length of red wool from within. "Here is the scarf in question, monsieur le vicomte."

He regarded her now in only his trousers and shirtsleeves. Without warning, he plucked the garment from her hands. His eyes gleamed. "Well then," he said, "I suppose that the punishment must fit the crime." He made a circling motion with his index finger. "Turn around, little Lotte."

He did not elaborate when she looked to him in question, but rather raised his brow in mock impatience—and so, with a curious smile, she complied.

She scarcely had time to register what was happening before he lowered the scarf in front of her eyes, knotting it snugly at the back of her head. "What is this about?" she asked.

"Ah, but that is your punishment: you do not get to know. You must simply endure whatever is to come."

"You are patently ridiculous," she told him, but still she smiled.

He did not respond. She heard his retreating footsteps, and then the light framing the edges of her blindfold disappeared to signal that he had dimmed the gas lamps. A few moments later, there came the soft  _snick_  of a match. The faintest amber light quivered along the bottom edge of the scarf: a candle, then, or several.

She could hear him approaching from behind her now, but just when he ought to have lain hands on her, he went still. She waited. Her heart seemed to beat in triplicate.

With a feather-light touch, his fingertips swept her hair aside so that he could press his lips to the side of her neck. Her muscles went slack as he let his mouth languish there, while practiced fingers began to tug at the laces of her corset. Gradually, the pressure on her ribcage subsided.

Raoul's lips shifted as he loosened the last of the laces, and she stifled a gasp as his teeth sank gently into the flesh between her neck and shoulder. This was new—but she did not dislike it. She began to writhe against him, seeking that telling hardness against her back, but her movements were effectively quashed when he wrapped his arms around her torso to unfasten the front closures of the corset.

The maneuver pulled her flush against the hard lines of his chest. He had managed to surround her on all sides, and the notion sent a heady rush of exhilaration dancing up her spine. When at last the corset parted at her sternum and he cast it aside, removing his lips from her neck as he did so, she was already aching with want.

Yet here he teased her again with another long pause, another buildup of anticipation. She could not predict what he would do next or where he would touch.

Finally, his knuckles brushed against her right shoulder to ghost down the side of her torso. Her breath wavered in the half-second that his hand grazed the soft slope of her breast, but he continued on down her side. When the hand reached her hip, his fingers splayed across her abdomen before continuing their sojourn southward.

Then she did gasp, for those strong fingers slipped downward and right through the slit in the fabric of her drawers. Her head fell back against his shoulder as he teased the folds of flesh there. "Raoul," she whispered, unsure of whether the utterance was meant to voice her appreciation or a desperate plea.

"Little Lotte," he murmured back, lips brushing the shell of her ear. His voice was a golden rumble that only intensified the thrill of the peculiar conditions in which she now found herself: upright and blindfolded, attired in only her unmentionables, while her husband stood at her back to pleasure her. Here among the drudgery of everyday obligations and the sleeting dark of February in the city, he was fashioning for them a private little corner of adventure and paradise.

Her breathing became more labored as he stroked with greater speed and pressure, until she was nearly panting in anticipation of that building release.

And then he stopped.

He withdrew both hands entirely, leaving her to whimper in protest as she leaned against his chest, and then he righted her so that she did not even have that contact with him. It was a brand of cruelty so unlike him, even in his more teasing moments, that she was stunned into silence.

He was moving her now, guiding her in the direction of the bed. Perhaps, she thought, he was under the impression that she should like to finish things there. But when her back came to rest against one of the carved wooden bedposts, he stopped. Her wrists were lifted above her head and her hands positioned on the post just behind it, as though she was meant to hold fast to that anchor.

In one swift movement, he pulled the chemise up over her head. She heard the rustle of fabric hitting the floor nearby, felt the cool night air nipping at the now-bare expanse of skin above her waist. The temperature made the sensation all the more breathtaking when a warm hand cupped each breast, palming their soft undersides as his thumbs circled the pebbling flesh at their centers. She was distantly aware of her grip on the bedpost tightening. Was that what he had intended as its purpose?

But just as quickly as his hands had found her chest, they left it to skate down the exposed skin of her stomach and latch onto the waistband of her drawers. With a quick yank, he had stripped her of every last garment save for her ivory stockings. Then he must have knelt, for he planted his hands on the gentle slopes of her thighs and nudged her legs farther apart.

It took only the first swipe of tongue against willing flesh for her to realize that, no,  _this_  was the intended purpose of the bedpost: to keep herself upright as her knees threatened to buckle. This new form of stimulation was a heady shock to her system. Never had she dreamed that Raoul might taste her, lap at her, tug at her flesh with his lips as he did now. Perhaps he was emboldened by the fact that she could not see him.

Neither could she stop writhing beneath his mouth, or quietly moaning at his efforts. He took his time, his movements reverent. Her abdominal muscles heaved; her nails dug into the unyielding wood of the bedpost. She wanted to tell him to stop and to never stop; she wanted to feel him inside her, but she never wanted this to end. And so she did nothing, save but wait for her inevitable release.

And oh, she could feel it coming. Like a formidable wave looming offshore, it could not be stopped; its approach both exhilarated and terrified. Christine's breaths devolved into sharp, stunted gasps.

Without warning, he pulled back and hoisted her up by the thighs, her legs straddling his waist as he moved to deposit her on the edge of the mattress. There he pushed her legs wide and brought his mouth to her again. This time, however, he introduced a finger that began to move within her, sliding back and forth with steady precision. She gasped and clutched at the bedcovers.

It was not long before that building wave crested, and with a sharp cry she was swept away with it. She bucked against Raoul's touch. His movements mimicked the intensity of that swell of pleasure until it ebbed and dissipated like sea foam ashore.

She worked to catch her breath, and she let out a tiny, blissful laugh when he kissed the insides of her thighs. He was kind enough to pivot her on the bed so that she could let her legs collapse, and then he climbed up beside her to remove the blindfold.

He had lit a candelabra on the opposite side of the room. The flames danced and cast ominous shadows against every surface, and she could just make out his expression: satisfaction, she thought, but laced with desire.

"Well, dearest," he said, "I daresay that you have been thoroughly chastised. What do you have to say for yourself?"

Christine extracted the red scarf from his grip. "I say that turnabout is fair play, monsieur." She moved off of the bed and pulled him to stand before her, where she began to unbutton his white shirt. "Or did you forget your own earlier indiscretion deserving of punishment?"

He frowned. "Surely you are not referring to when I said your friend's new husband resembled a frog?"

She paused long enough to swat at his arm. "Of course I am, you impertinent bully."

"A bully! Hardly! It was uttered in confidence, and I do believe that you struggled not to laugh."

"I did no such thing." She slid the unbuttoned shirt from his shoulders, and then she trailed her hands down the solid planes of his chest.

"Ah, but you know that I am right. The man has the thinnest lips and most bulbous eyes that I have ever seen! And no chin to boot."

She bit back a smile and replied, "Enough of your cheek, monsieur. Back on the bed you go. Sit against the headboard." And she pushed him toward the mattress, where he complied even as he regarded her with wary suspicion.

The headboard came to two points, one on either side, where the walnut was carved into elaborate curlicues and fleurs-de-lys. It was here that Christine positioned Raoul's wrists, and then she looped the scarf around one of the curlicues, where there was an elegant gap in the wood, in order to secure him there. Then she stood back to admire her handiwork.

Her husband tugged at his restraints before glancing back at them. "Why, this is a first-rate knot," he remarked. "A sea captain could hardly do better. What other skills have you been hiding all this time, my dear?"

She gave him a sly smile and began to circle the bed, all too aware of how his stormy eyes raked over her figure. "Perhaps we shall find out soon enough. How should I repay you, I wonder?"

As she slowly rounded to the other side of the bed, she caught a glimpse of herself in the large mirror on the opposite wall: wild brown curls tumbling over her back, her skin bare save for the cream silk stockings hiked up to her thighs. Time and Raoul's unwavering praise had helped her shed much of her modesty around him, but there was something utterly wanton about the notion of watching herself in the act—wanton, but suddenly thrilling.

It was in the mirror that she watched herself cross the bed on all fours, lithe as a cat, to gently rake her nails down his chest and stomach. When she glanced up at him, he was staring back as though the scarf was the only barrier to his devouring her whole.

Christine bent down and pressed her lips to what she knew was a sensitive spot just below his navel. She felt his abdominal muscles contract under her touch, and she smiled against his skin and the pale, coarse hairs rooted there. She continued to pepper his skin with kisses while her hands worked at his belt and trouser fastenings. Finally, with one swift tug, she slid trousers and drawers from his legs, leaving him bare and visibly aroused.

Her mouth settled back on his abdomen, but it would not remain there this time. In the glimpses that she caught of his face, she could see his lips part wider with every kiss that she planted in a trail southward from his navel. "Christine," he moaned quietly, as though he did not dare voice what he hoped was her end goal. Some part of her coveted his desperation, but she would not torture him. She found her reflection in time to watch as she took him into her cupid's-bow mouth, her lips sinking down as far as they could go. Beneath her, Raoul arched his back and groaned.

Slowly, gingerly, she moved her head up and down. She teased him with swipes of tongue and lip, reveling in the sounds that escaped his throat, stoking the embers of desire that again burned low in her belly. She wanted him now, and she would have him.

She heard the devastated gasp on his lips when she released him from her mouth, but she was quick to move in and straddle his hips. He watched her with wide eyes as she planted her hands on his shoulders and lowered herself onto him. He exhaled a long breath with a hiss; she whimpered at the satisfying fullness of this position, at the delicious point of contact between her sex and his. And then she began to move.

She had done this a handful of times before, just enough to have progressed from slight gawkishness to a supple, rhythmic undulation of hips. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him fiercely as she moved. He strained against his bonds, and though it would have been nice to feel the grip of his hands egging her on, she also took pleasure in this image of him at her mercy, his eyes glassy and half-mad with desire.

And oh, it felt so wonderful already. Every rock of her hips sent nerve-endings sparking. When she glanced into the mirror, the sensual power that she saw there spurred her on even more. Within minutes, she had vaulted into euphoria once again, and she trembled against Raoul as that heady gratification wracked her body.

Finally, she slumped against him, arms still around his neck, in order to collect herself before she attended to him further. He would have none of it. "For the love of God, Christine, untie me," he gasped.

She smiled muzzily and loosened the knot at his wrists. In an instant, he had flipped her onto her back and was driving into her as though his life depended on it. It nearly stole her breath from her lungs, the power with which he took her, and she clung to him fiercely as the bed rocked beneath his efforts. It was an entirely different kind of intoxication that she felt now.

She had been listening to the gratifying sound of skin slapping against skin when he froze, and then with a guttural cry, he pushed against her in one final, extended thrust. All went silent save for his labored breathing. Still she kept her limbs wrapped around him, and through that intimate contact, they experienced the aftershocks of their pleasure together.

When he could move again, Raoul kissed her everywhere that his mouth could reach. "What have I ever done to deserve you?" he murmured against her skin, to which she replied, "What  _haven't_  you done?," and when it came time for bed they did not even bother with nightclothes. They fell asleep, skin against skin, not to stir again until morning light.

* * *

Christine awoke to strange rattling noises. When she pried her eyes open, they found Raoul, fully dressed, struggling to ferry a breakfast tray through the doorway. He offered a sheepish smile when he noticed that he had her attention. "I nearly dropped this twice on the way over," he confessed. "It is no wonder that the staff looked so uneasy when I insisted on carrying it." He set the tray on the nearest surface—the dressing-table—and began to fix her coffee the way that she liked it, with a generous pour of milk and a single cube of sugar.

At the sight of the bedside clock, she sat up, clutching the bedsheets to her bare chest. "Oh, Raoul, can we really afford to dally like this? We both have engagements out of the house this morning."

He shook his head as he brought over her coffee. "I have arranged for all of our engagements for the next twenty-four hours to be canceled or postponed. Today, my dear, we do not leave this room, save to obtain sustenance."

She took a sip, deemed the beverage still too hot, and set it on the beside table. "Is that an order, monsieur?"

"Never." Raoul removed his tailcoat and toed off his shoes. "Only a gift to the woman who bends over backwards to support me, when I know that she would much rather be curled up with a book and a song." He slid into bed next to her. "But here is a secret," he said, and he pulled her down next to him in order to trail a fingertip down the bare curves of her side. "You could put in only half as much effort and I would still adore you." His hand had made it down to her thigh before he removed it to sweep her hair back, exposing her neck so that he could lean in and dot it with languid kisses.

She closed her eyes and lifted her chin to give him better access. "And what if I put in no effort at all?" she teased. Her breath hitched as a warm hand palmed her ribcage.

"I think that you would sooner die than be so indolent," he muttered into her skin, "but even then I would love you." That same hand found her breast, the pad of his thumb raking across her nipple, and she bit her lip against the resulting shock of pleasure. "Today," he added, "you are not a vicomtesse. Today you are Little Lotte."

"Just Christine," she corrected him. "Little Lotte would be scandalized to witness what I expect to transpire in this bedroom today."

His hand made its way down to her backside, where it cupped the soft flesh there. "Mm," he murmured. "Too right. Well then, Christine, what would you like to do on your day off?"

She could not help it; her eyes darted to the bedside table. He followed her gaze to its target: the red wool scarf, discarded from the night before, looking so innocent where it lay but also, they now knew, so rife with potential.

Without a word, Raoul snatched the scarf from the table and turned back to consume her.


End file.
